"Not each other," said the Baroness severely. "At least, not if it is a husband and his wife. He alone shoots."
"Oh," said Ingeborg, considering this.
She was sitting inertly on her chair, holding her cup of coffee slanting, too much dejected to drink it.
"And then does that make her love him again?" she asked, in her small tired voice.
The Baroness did not answer.
"Only blood," said Hildebrand, "can wipe out a husband's dishonour."
"How nasty!" said Ingeborg dejectedly.
Life seemed all blood. She drooped over her cup, thinking of the cruelty with which things were apparently packed. The Baroness and Hildebrand, after a pregnant silence, turned from her and began to talk of somebody they called poor Emmi. Ingeborg sat alone with her cup, wondering how she could get away before she began to cry. Dreadful how easily she cried now. She must buy some more handkerchiefs. They seemed lately to be always at the wash.
She roused herself again. She really must say something. As her way was when confused and unnerved, she caught at the first thing she found tumbling about in her mind. "Why was Emmi poor?" she asked in her small tired voice.
There was another pregnant silence.